The Secret Keeper
by RoseWolf21
Summary: All that time, yet I keep coming back to this place-barely a speck of dust on any map. This was my Crucible, the vault now protecting everything I've ever held dear. This place has been my haven for so many years I can hardly bear to leave it empty again, not so soon. There are far too many secrets in here to reveal in just one trip. PART 3: The 'Gravekeeper' Series
1. Secret Keeper

My Eyes closed, I'm on the couch with a book on my chest. The light is on in the kitchen still, and I left the TV. I remember the soap opera I'd been half-watching before I fell asleep. There was a girl who'd been hit by…something. She looked just like me, but her hair was just a wig, and she was bleeding onto the stone floor of…wherever. Her…mother, I think, hadn't moved an inch since the scene began. I remember she cupped the dying girl's right hand in both of hers and bowed her head like she was praying_._

_ "__It's alright, Alexandrina. Come on; you're alive, now you've gotta stay that way, alright?" _The mother said_. "There's so much more you could do in this world, you've got to stay alive." _

The dying girl smiled_. "I know, I'm trying my best here."_

The mother smiles back as she looks down at her daughter; there are unshed tears in her deep brown eyes._ "Guess that makes two of us," _she whispered_._

The daughter smiles with her.

Tears finally fell, streaking down the mother's cheeks one at a time as she cried_. "I can't let you die like this, Ally. Please, don't go down this path. I don't want you to go!" _

The daughter blinked in surprise, just as I did when I heard those peculiar lines. Granted, I'd started watching the program right in the middle, but still! It seems like there are so much background and context that I'm missing here. This previously confident, witty blonde woman, was now rambling in tears over her dying daughter, words pouring out in grief and relief.

_"__Hey," _The dying girl whispered, catching her mother's attention._ "It's alright, Mum. I've lived more in these last two years than I have all others. I'll be okay." _She says. And while any audience member could see that she was awake and breathing, I knew she wasn't out of the dark yet.

The older woman, in turn, wipes her eyes, sniffs a little bit and says._ "Yes, you'll be okay. You'll be brilliant…I'll have to find a way to make it happen." _She sniffs again._ "You should probably get some sleep.," _she tells her daughter with a trembling smile.

In return, the dying girl barely managed to squeeze out her words with a smile just for her mum._ "Will you still be there when I wake up?"_

Her mother nodded, keeping that weak smile on her face as best she can. "_Of course, sweetie. Now and forever."_ She kissed her daughter's forehead just as my eyes slid closed.

That was…I don't know how long ago, but now all I can hear from the television is a sort of buzzing noise, a dull grey mist behind my closed eyes. Everything begins to flicker. My eyes open, instinctually sensing something is wrong.

When I exhale, my breath is visible. Getting to my feet, I know what to do. The cupboard, hidden in my closet, I open it. I start pulling out weapons like a magician always pulling scarves out of his hat. The phone rings in the living room. But the call can wait.

For right now, I have more important things to worry about some device, like metal or maybe a radiation detector, which starts beeping and flashing in a frenzy — an EMF reader. I hear the man on the voicemail through the panicked yellow beeps; the orange voice is garbled. But it sounds like Bobby.

Load the gun through the noise, and try to investigate this house I'm in — an apartment. I hear a sound, and I turn. A thin, tall man appears beside me-battered and bruised. I don't recognise him, and yet I am afraid. Why am I afraid?

_"__You!"_ I gasp, even though I do not know his name.

I fire my gun at the figure, he must be a ghost, in hopes to scare him off. He disappears, in a puff of smoke. I quietly pull out a bag of salt from the corner of my bedroom and smother the threshold of my room with it. But the ghost returns to me then, on the wrong side of the salt line.

_"__I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."_ I tell him because I can't remember his name. I do not know this man.

When I turn around and try to run, a blonde woman grabs me by the throat. She is beaten, battered, bruised and grey. Her grip tightens. I cannot breathe, trapping the air in my lungs — no air in, no air out. The man appears behind the woman, jamming his fist into my chest, wrapping his fingers tight around my heart — a scowl from the woman, a satisfied grin was growing on the man.

I scream, begging for someone to help me.

Then it swallows me.

* * *

I gasp back to life, panting desperate yellow. Sit up. I put a hand on my neck. Again. No swelling, no tender bruising, but my heart is racing. Again. I am breathing, I am alive, but I am in a panic. Again. My feet flying to the floor, I run immediately for the first closet I can find, my footsteps rapid and loud in my ears.

At the doors of one, I stop, again, panting enough to puke. I take a breath and hold it in as I check inside again, sifting through the clothes and things inside; to my relief, there were no weapons stashed in the wall behind the closet, I was not in the apartment with the battered, murderous ghosts.

To my surprise, there were no weapons stashed in the wall behind the closet, I mean, this was _Bobby's_ house for crying out loud! Where would he _not _have demon-killing weapons stashed? I let out my breath, my heart calming and my stomach settling at last-for the third inVoices. The first thing I register is a voice. Downstair, multiple voices, I make my way to the end of the hall, to the head of the stairs. I stop. And I listen.

"_Don't you think that if angels were real, that some hunter somewhere would have seen one…at some point…ever?"_ A rugged red voice asked-Dean.

_"__Yeah. You just did, Dean." T_he sassier yellow voice replied-Sam.

_"__I'm trying to come up with a theory here. Okay? Work with me here."_ Dean.

_"__Dean, we have a theory,"_ Sam said as if he were already stating the obvious.

_"__Yeah, one with a little less fairy dust on it, please,"_ Dean said slowly.

I chuckled a little bit at that remark, then got to my feet and headed into around the corner to the kitchen where Dean and Sam's voices, and selves, were assembled.

"Okay, look. I'm not saying we know for sure. I'm just saying that I think we—." Sam trailed off as I came into the room.

Dean took this opportunity to make his point angrily. "Okay, okay. That's the point. We don't know for sure, so I'm not gonna believe that this thing is a freaking 'Angel of the Lord' because it says so!"

"I'm pretty sure Castiel is a _he,_ Dean. Not it." I said from behind.

Dean jumped and spun around to look at me, surprised.

I laughed at the look on his face. "Good morning to you too, sunshine." I teased, coming into the room entirely. Then, looking over, I noticed the pile of books opened on Bobby's desk. "Whatcha got, Uncle?" I asked.

Everyone perks to attention and walks over to the front of Bobby's desk.

"Well, I got stacks of lore—Biblical, pre-Biblical. Some of it's in damn cuneiform. It all says an angel can snatch a soul from the pit." Bobby replied in his usual way.

"What else?" Dean asked.

"What else what?" I asked him.

"What else could do it?" He rephrased.

"What? Airlift your ass out of the hot box? As far as I can tell, nothing." Bobby replied.

"Dean, this is good news." Sam insists.

"How?"

"Because for one, this isn't just another round of demon crap," Sam said.

"Sam's right." I agreed. "Maybe this time you were saved by one of the good guys," I suggested.

"Okay. Say it's true. Say there are angels. Then what? There's a God?"

"At this point," Bobby pointed out. "Vegas' money's on yeah."

"That's what's most likely," I added cognitively. "I mean, what are Heaven and angels without God? If I remember anything from Sunday School, it's that the angels served God, one-hundred-per cent. Practically helpless without him." I remembered.

Dean still seemed sceptical.

"Dean, I know you're not all choirboy about this stuff, but this is becoming less and less about faith and more and more about proof," Sam said.

"Proof?"

"Yeah."

"Proof that there's a God out there that gives a crap about me? I'm sorry, but I'm not buying it." Dean snorts.

I look at him carefully. "Why not?"

"Because, _why me_?" The boys insisted earnestly. "—If there is a God out there, why would he give a crap about me?"

The sudden shred of vulnerability in his voice put me off a beat. "Because it's like Castiel said—" I tried to put in, but Dean cut me off.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, 'God has plans for me' and blah blah blah," Dean muttered. "I mean sure, I've saved some people, okay? I figured that made up for the stealing and the ditching chicks. But why do I deserve to get saved? I'm just a regular guy."

"Because it's _like Castiel said_." I insisted more firmly so that Dean would at least look over and listen to me. "God has plans for you. And if he picked you, then you must be the only one who can do what needs doing, whatever that may be. You must be special somehow."

"Well, no offence to the big guy, but that creeps me out. I mean, I don't like getting singled out at a birthday party, much less by, by God."

"Okay, well, too bad, Dean," Sam said, rather sharply. "Because I think he wants you to strap on your party hat."

Dean was silent for a moment, then just shook his head. "Fine." He said. "What do we know about angels?" Dean turned to ask Bobby.

Bobby picks up a pile of fat and heavy looking books from the centre of his desk and puts them on end, in front of Dean. "Start reading." He says, as-a-matter-of-factly.

Dean stares at the pile of books like a cow just crapped on his shoes. Then he looks to Sam and points at him. "You're gonna be getting me some pie." He says, grabbing a book from the top of the pile.

"Oh, can I come?" I ask.

Sam and Dean turn to look at me. "Why?" Sam asks.

"Because. I need to go grab new clothes up in town." I told him. "No way am I wearing the same stuff _six _days in a row."

Both boys looked me up and down as if realising for the first time that I was still wearing the same trainers, black pants, white cami and pink hoodie that I had been wearing the day I met Dean.

"Okay." Sam shrugged. "Let's head out."

* * *

Sam retook the Impala today. And by the time we were turning into the nearest gas station, a bold mix of thick blue and white lines with yellow block print, he was already on the phone with Dean.

"Yes, Dean, I'll get the chips," Sam told his brother as if he were talking to his mom. "Dude, when have I ever forgotten the pie?" he asks. I chuckle at the exchange. "Exactly," Sam said, then hung up.

He gets out of the car. I shift over into the driver's seat. The keys are still in the ignition, and Sam starts heading for the station.

"Hey, Sam!" I called, as he was heading in the door to the gas station store.

"Yeah?" he asks, turning to look at me.

"You can handle the food order, right?" I asked, with a teasing smile.

Sam laughed. "Yes mom!" he called over his shoulder, heading into building to get himself some pie.

I laughed back, even though he may not have heard me, then restarted the car. After that, it was smooth sailing through town. Cruising in an antique vehicle exiting off Highway 42 was like—well, first of all, I have to say Dean's car drives like a dream. Sure, the engines created before sound mufflers invented, but the sound didn't affect smoothness at all, and I have to say I was rather impressed. But more than that, driving a 1967 Chevy Impala through the centre of town was like…passing through a tunnel, a portal, maybe—some boundary like the wall between East and West Berlin in the '80s. I could see the shift in the air, as if the sky suddenly filled with smoke or dust and no one cared, driving past the skeevy motels and abandoned street-side pharmacies. Looking anywhere besides the road ahead would show nothing but low-income workers, clueless travellers and homeless penny pushers at every crossing.

Out Colonial Drive, the road dominated by pick-up trucks-looking around their hulking steel frames was a constant struggle; I had to find that rusted old sign that said _Green Oaks Drive._ It came up so suddenly I nearly missed it, but once the few hundred feet of asphalt gave way to a washed-out dirt road, I knew I was in the right ballpark, which was a shame because they'd already built a small community further down. Houses which were also left the same time as their shared driveway, now home to junkies and squatters and other struggling folks.

The road was a dead end, the dust-painted houses and pine-wood skeletons cast shadows over me, telling me to turn back—I refused. Staring out at the empty dirt road, the reflective heat distorting the image of what I knew was there-a half-built strip mall wavering in the bright distance. There had once been a sign or each of its four storefronts, but as I approached, I could see the busted and sun-bleached neon would never shine again. This single-story building had never passed its prime, it was hardly even born, but it found a way to die all the same. Strips of cracked paint peeled away from the flat roof and solid walls, revealing bare cinder-block and unabashed iron cords. The windows were either stained with dust, broken, or poorly boarded up by half-assed authorities trying to keep out the 'unsavoury people' that would rest their heads here at night.

As soon as the car stopped, I immediately registered a smell that could only tell me one thing—no one had lived here in a long time. Anyone who had lived here previously was not alive anymore. Walking around the back of the building, I find four locked steel doors, each corresponding with the four individual storefronts I saw on the other side. These aren't the ones hanging rusted and chipped with chains that only pretended to be secure. These were shiny and relatively new—there are no words to describe how glad I was that I had taken the Winchester's Impala to get here. That hunting arsenal they kept in the trunk was bound to have metal cutters buried somewhere.

It did, and I found a mini-flashlight, too.

Even so, the metal frame of the third door was thick with the crust or something warped with age. So, it took a bit more elbow grease to push it inward just a crack. I ended up having to kick it the rest of the way in, which was rather exhilarating. The open door gave me sufficient light to examine my surroundings, though the air was warm both inside and out, replacing stale with fresh was a welcome relief. This place will office remember, judging by the labyrinth of metal shelves swallowing the back of the building I'd say this was the storage room for all the products sold. The papers on the floor are all either blank, lined, or some faded colour.

An empty room was nothing new to me, and neither was silence, but the sound of my every breath, every shuffling footstep, echoed in my ears—a sensation I haven't felt in a long, long time. Finding the empty side wall on the west side of the room, the light from the door glimmered against the glue stains on the concrete floor. Walking forward, I found the only evidence that anyone ever left behind in this room since the 70's—a stack of cardboard boxes hiding a jagged, semi-circular, thigh-high hole in the wall. The acronym _A.M. _was still spray-painted there in an army-green colour that almost blended into the shadows of the room, the dust coating every surface of this place. After so long, it felt as if I hardly recognised the 'handwriting' behind the spray paint.

Ducking down, the flashlight I slipped from my pocket reveals yet another cardboard box, but this one sealed correctly, and more significant, with the same initials scribbled there in Sharpie—_A.M._ I remember living here after…life happened, and whatnot. I made a few trips in between months, but I always came back to this place. I found it after I'd first left everything behind. I tried going back home, finishing school or whatever, but nothing stuck. That is until I decided that my life needed to be tossed upside down yet again. I still remember the day—

* * *

_Under my kitchen sink where I kept the garbage and recycling, I pulled out a two-foot by a two-foot cardboard box and headed to my bedroom. Taking my clothes from my closet, I folded them as neatly and as quickly as possible, stashing them all in the box. I also packed a few of the more precious things I owned. A picture of me, Mum and Da, then another of me, Mum, and my little brother Jamie…along with the camera my uncle (not Bobby, one my blood-related ones) got me for my birthday when I was fourteen._

_Once everything was packed and sealed with duct tape, I changed into my last remaining set of clothes in the closet and took the box out to sit by the doorway. Before I left, I thought of something; also, from the recycling under my sink, I pulled out a paper bag and a large roll of cash. I put the money on the counter, then checked the cupboard. After putting the money and my remaining laundry in the paper bag, I stacked that on top of my cardboard box and headed out the door. Carrying all my stuff down the steps, out the building, I loaded it all into the old Subaru. He was in the driver's seat, waiting for me. _

_**"**__**You ready to go, babe?"**__ He asked with his signature smile, his face pale and his pupils the size of flying saucers._

_**"**__**As I'll ever be,"**__ I admitted with a nervous smile, noticing the way his fingers twitched on the wheel, his grip whiter than snow. __**"Are you sure you don't want me to drive?"**__ I asked, vaguely with a concerned furrow across my brow._

_He shakes his head and laughs, his uncontrollable shock of black hair falling in his sea green eyes. __**"Nah, don't worry 'bout it, babe. I've got it all handled here, tell me where you wanna go, and the road is ours."**__ He threw a reckless smile at me and jerked to the gas pedal. I yelped, and eight hours later we'd found a suitable motel room far, far away from Columbia, Missouri._

* * *

All that time, gone in an instant, and yet I kept coming back to this place. Barely a speck of dust on any map, and however it was right here, in this abandoned strip mall, that I hit my lowest point and came back up again. This was my Crucible, now the vault that protected everything I've ever held dear in my life. Any little piece I could salvage and categorise, I've hidden in here. This box, the one I pulled from beneath my mother's kitchen sink, has been filled with cash, emptied of clothes and then refilled of both many times before, but some things remain the same. I hope it is the only box I will need to recover, this place has been my haven for so many years I don't want to leave it bare and empty again, not so soon. There are far too many secrets in here to reveal in just one trip.


	2. His Secret

His Secret

Okay, call me paranoid, over-prepared, OCD, whatever you'd like, but I still had to do one more errand on my way back from the strip mall. It was the only way I could make the return trip to pick up Sam without having a worried or guilty conscience, though if my worries were wrong I know I'll have a double-guilty conscience for the false signals my actions might send. But pulling back into the gas station, I stopped when I noticed a flare of colour. Dark grey, in the middle of a bright morning, whirling and spinning in tendrils like an octopus in a blender. I had seen a storm like this before, and thanks to that, I knew what it meant.

There was a demon around.

Stashing my stuff in the back seat of the Impala, I got out of the car and followed the trail of dark grey tendrils. On the edge of the front-side of the station, I spared a glimpse around and saw the back of Sam's jacket, and the front of someone else's. There was Sam, thereby the icebox with a bag in his hand.

But, standing across from him, was her. That beautiful girl from the dingy Astoria Hotel, the one we found with Sam almost four days ago now. Kathy? Kristy? Something with a K? I didn't like her. I didn't like how pretty she was. And even from the beginning, that aura around her has rubbed me the wrong way. But now? It may as well have been trying to tear my skin from my bones.

And now I knew why.

K-something was a demon. Sam had been sleeping with a devil. Oh by golly-If Dean ever found out, he would throw a fit. He'd be furious, not just with the demon, possibly for tricking Sam. But also at Sam himself, perhaps for not seeing her demon-ness all along. Even if he had, since they were still talking, Dean would probably be even angrier than before. From my terrible hiding spot around the corner, I listened instead of watched what they were saying to one another.

"So, is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"Did an angel rescue Dean?"

"You heard." Sam.

"Who hasn't?" K, sounding persistently annoyed.

"We're not one hundred percent, but I think so." Sam.

Someone comes out the door of the gas station, spooking me for a moment. But quickly, I recover my ears and continue to listen. There was a blurb of the conversation I didn't catch, but it results in Sam grabbing her arm. The demon's arm. Sam had said something to her, but I only manage to hear what she decides to reply.

"Sam, they're angels. I'm a demon. They're not gonna care if I'm helpful. They smite first, and then ask questions later." K told him, a little sharply.

"What do you know about them, Ruby?" Sam.

That name! That firkin name! Where have I heard that name?! How do I know that name?! Ruby-

"Not much. I've never met one, and I don't want to. All I know is that angels scare the Holy Hell out of me. Watch yourself, Sam."'

"I'm not scared of angels," Sam said sternly.

Effectively ending the conversation, K—Ruby—walks away. Finally leaving Sam alone.

Several thoughts all bombarded me at once. So Sam knows. Helpful how? Are angels dangerous to demons? Good Riddance. Are they hazardous to others too? I don't know. But he knows what she is. And she knows about Castiel. This situation was not good. …But how do I know her?

Picking up where I had left off, I jogged quickly back to the Impala and jumped into the shotgun seat, making sure to slam the door and catch Sam's attention. It does, and he comes around to find me there, waiting for him with a bag of my own. I was quiet for most of the ride back to Bobby's. But my thoughts seemed so loud I didn't even realize it until Sam said something to me.

"Bryn? Earth to Brianna—" the words broke through when a hand touched my arm. The touch was gentle, but still, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Wha-at? Err, sorry Sam, what were you saying?" I asked, shaking myself back into the present. He wasn't looking at the road at all. He was looking at me, brows slightly furrowed. But once he realized he had my attention, he removed his hand from me and returned it to the steering wheel to face forward.

"What's in the bag?" He asked, motioning to my paper bag in my lap without a glance.

Quickly blinking away my haze of busy thoughts, I make sure to smile and shrug. "Oh…just some things I thought we might need later on down the road. You know, being a girl and all." I said, throwing him a suggestive wink for good measure.

Sam's eyebrows rose with a furtive glance, catching the suggestiveness of my behaviour, but otherwise, he didn't comment. I let out a breath. Then I remember something he told me, months ago still, when he called to see about Dean.

"Heya Sam, how's it going?"

"Uh…good. Good. Great. Uhm…has Dean, checked in with you at all, recently?"

I rolled my lips together, knowing and hating how the truth was going to hurt him. "No, not yet. But he will Sam, don't give up just yet. You'll find a way to get him back." I told him. But for now, "You're not travelling alone, are you? I don't mean to pry or anything I just—I know how lonely that can be and I—"

"No. No, no, no, no, no. You're okay, Bryn. I'm not alone. I'm fine, alright? Me and an old friend of mine, Ruby, we're both looking for a way to bring Dean back, I promise. Now, he never really liked her much but, she's been a big help on the road. And you're right. I won't give up. Not 'till I get Dean back."

"Atta boy!" I smile. "Braveheart, Sam Winchester. 'Till next time, yea? I'll see you soon. And you'll see Dean again, I know it."

"Yea, thanks, Bryn. I'll see you soon."

"Count on it, cowboy." I hung up the phone.

Oh, God. He had already told me about Ruby before, but I never met her, I didn't know what she looked like. But I've known of her existence this whole time. I knew they were working together, supposedly to try and bring Dean back. They probably have been doing more than that, too. Now I remember-

Immediately, Dean's shoulders tense, his feet squaring themselves—poised to intimidate—with the words: "That's not what I'm asking. How do you know my name?"

"Sam, he told me what happened," I told him because it should have been obvious. "He was driving, four months ago. He pulled over about a mile from my store. When I found him, you had just died."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know," I replied. "Last time I talked to Sam, he was still looking for a way to bring you back. But I honestly had no idea he and—"

"He and who, he and Bobby?"

"Bobby?" I asked. "Like…Bobby Bobby? Bobby Singer?"

"Well, how many other Bobby's do you know?!"

He never let me finish, tore me right off the track. The end of that sentence. The entire time, I was about to say, Ruby. I knew who she was all this time, and I never told him. I knew she existed, Sam told me. But if he knew that I knew of her and that Dean knew her, why pretend? That night at the Astoria Hotel, that was Ruby the entire time, that whole thing about 'Kristy.' or 'Kathy' or whatever was a complete farce. He played both me and Dean. Maybe even Bobby. –But why? That was Ruby, I know that now. But if they all knew her-why didn't anybody else but Sam recognize her?

Well-Ruby's a demon, she could probably pick vessels nearly the same way that Castiel can. However, she wants. And seeing as Ruby is not a hunter but a demon, no wonder she and Dean don't get along. Like cats and dogs. –Then again, why would Sam ever get along with a demon anyway? He knows exactly who and what she is, and yet she's still breathing and walking using someone else's lungs and legs. She probably wouldn't even be recognizable once Dean caught wind of her and whatever scheme she realizes for herself in canoodling with Sam-among other, sick and disturbing things. I knew I was right to dislike her.

* * *

When Sam and I pull back up to the house, Bobby steps of from the porch and knocks on the window saying; "Keep the car running."

Sam does, but I get out of the car to get my stuff, setting my paper bag behind the passenger seat, and bringing the cardboard box into the house. But on my way up the stairs, I run into Dean.

"What's going on, Dean? Where are we heading?" I ask, trying not to let everything I learned about Ruby spill out of my mouth all at once. Now is not the time, nor the place, I know.

"Bobby has a friend, Olivia Lowry. She lives about a state away from here. Says he's been trying to reach her for the past three days on this angel thing. It's not like any hunter to ignore that many calls from anyone unless she's giving Bobby the cold shoulder." Dean said in his typical red voice. "We're heading out to check on her."

Olivia Lowry…oh my god, I remember her— "Okay. I'll meet you guys out by the car. I just got to put my stuff away." I nod.

"See you there." Dean nodded back.

I dash up to my old bedroom, stowing my box into the farthest corner of the closet by the bed. What could have happened to Olivia? She and Bobby have been friends for years, she stayed beside him through everything, when even I could not. I should tell him. Tearing through the string and tape on the box, I grab and put on a quick change of clothes; a grey, open shouldered T-shirt, pale wash boot cut jeans, white trainers and a burgundy hooded track-jacket with white stripes on the sleeves and down the zipper. I really should tell him. But I can't, not yet. I need to get going.

As fast as I can, I race down the stairs and out the door to the Impala. Naturally, Dean has taken his proper place as the driver of the collector's clunker car, and he doesn't have a clue. He doesn't know my secrets, and he doesn't know Sam's. The younger Winchester has taken my old place in shotgun (as I figured he would), keeping secrets more dangerous than my own and yet refusing to tell. Which leaves Bobby with his private van, and me in the backseat of the Impala. The moment I load up, I see Dean snatch the food bag out of Sam's lap. He's quiet for a moment.

"Dude?" Dean.

"Yeah?" Sam.

"Where's the pie?"

I can't even bother to help it. I laugh. Both boys jump and look back at me, as if I had just appeared from thin air and by surprise. I look at them and smile. "Don't worry Dean," I told him, my voice light and bright gold as I reach down for the paper bag I brought. Cleaning out the irrelevant things, I dropped it in his lap. "I gotcha covered."

Sam looks back at me, eyebrows raised. I bite my lip, smile and wink at him as Dean opens the bag. The moment he sees what's in it, his face lights up. "Bingo!" He grins, pulling out the plastic-wrapped lemon pie.

Sam's eyebrows shoot even higher at the sight of the pie, then turns to look at me, his expression speaking loud and clear. 'That's what you meant the whole time?'

"Hey, where the hell did you get this?" Dean asked, tearing off the saran wrap like an eight-year-old with his first Christmas present.

"My there was a bakery next to one of the clothing outlets in town. I told him it was my cousin's birthday and he gave me the pie half-price." I say.

"Sweet!" Dean cheered.

I smiled. "Ready to head out then?" I ask.

Dean openly dips his finger in the pie and slurps it without shame, as if he hasn't eaten sugar in years.

"Yep!" He cheers, smacking his lips. "Absolutely!"

* * *

As a reward for remembering the pie, Dean arms me with a Gerber Mark II when we arrive. He had offered me a BC 41, but I saw it as a coward's way out. A knife is enough for me. I don't need the brass to throw a tough-as-leather punch anyway.

Pulling up to Olivia Lowry's apartment, Bobby, is the first one through the door. All the boys are armed with shotguns, making me the caboose with a knife. The front door was hidden from the living room by a half wall, creating a corner of the living room, in which a box TV nestled. But across the room, at the threshold of the bedroom, was a shattered white salt line. One step closer to that line. That is where I see it.

Olivia. Olivia Lowry—lying dead on the floor, ribs tore open like a busted birdcage. Admittedly, one that had been broken open by a stick of dynamite. My gasp catches the attention of the other boys. My running to kneel beside Olivia draws the three of them passed the salt line and into the room.

Bobby left the room as soon as he came. And I understood why.

"Bobby?" Dean inquired, his voice a little yellow with concern.

"He needs a moment," I said, half listening.

No pulse in her wrist, of course. All her blood is on the floor, pooling red between the floorboards, soaking my jeans. At that moment I saw her neck. . Purple and Grey. She was suffocated. More than suffocated.

Echoes of last night's dream rang in my ears and rushed through my body, replacing any and all lingering thoughts of demons. A hand at my neck, clutching it tight. A fist ramming through my chest, tearing my heart away from me. My own terrified and pain-wracked screams as I died. But it wasn't me. My hand on my own pulse, my breath caught in my throat. I was alive. I hadn't died. Olivia had died. She died as I dreamed-I witnessed Olivia's murder.

"Salt line." Sam.

"Olivia was rocking the EMF reader."…Dean

"They were spirits." I murmured, still reeling in horror over my dreams, over Olivia's death.

"Yeah—on steroids. I never seen a ghost do this to a person."

Right on cue, everyone looks over to witness Bobby's return, phone in his hand. "Everything okay, Uncle?" I asked.

"I called some hunters nearby—"

"Great!"

"Yeah, we can use their help." Dean agreed.

"Except they ain't answering their phones either," Bobby added.

"Something's up, huh?" Sam asked.

"You think?" Bobby asked, sharp orange and red with anger and sarcasm.

With that, he walks out. Dean, Sam and I all share concerned looks, but nothing more. I'm the only one who goes after him. "Bobby!" I call after him, jogging to catch up.

The elder hunter stops, turns and looks at me. "What do you want?" He growls, with a less than kindly orange.

"I want to know if you're okay," I told him, putting a hand on his arm as soon as I reached him.

Bobby scoffed. "Yea, I'm fine. What else is new?"

"Uncle…"

He looked at me. "Don't give me that 'Uncle' crap. I'm fine. Stop nagging me." He tried to walk away.

"Uncle, stop." My grip tightened on his arm, keeping my voice purple but firm.

Bobby looked back at me. "What now?" He said, always with orange irritation.

"Don't talk to me like that," I tell him firmly. "I am not someone that you can shrug off or push away. Whether you believe it or not, you are family to me, Bobby, and I wanna help you, so I'm not leaving your side until you tell me what's wrong."

Bobby nailed me with a look, his tight jaw refusing to talk.

I let out a breath. "Uncle, I remember Olivia. She saved my life, and yours, too, probably. I'm sorry this all happened to her…no one deserves a death like that. But you're not the only one who's hurting. You don't have to be alone in this."

He didn't answer. Didn't even bother to nod.

Another breath. "You want to go and check on those other hunters?"

He nodded.

"Alright. I'm coming with you then." This time, we both loaded up into Bobby's van, then took off down the road. As we drove, I found myself crossing fingers on both my hands, hoping desperately that no one else had died as cruelly and aggressively as Olivia. Well…except maybe Ruby.


	3. Her Pain

Her Pain

Hours later, there was a sombre quiet in the van. I knew that red destruction flooded behind both our eyes, even when we didn't blink. More broken bones and birdcage chests. Brilliant souls, torn from their bodies by vengeful spirits that we had been too late to stop.

The phone rang.

I jumped. Bobby picked it up. The red lisping out of the speaker and the gruff, gritty voice on that end, told me everything that had caught me by surprise. It was Dean.

"R.C. I checked on Carl Bates and R.C. Adams," Bobby replied to something Dean had asked. "They both redecorated, in red." A few moments of almost quiet. Gorey images and memories were flashing before my eyes. "I don't know," Bobby said again in reply. "But until we find out, you guys better get your asses back to my place."

He hangs up seconds later. "How are they? Did they find the others?" I asked.

"Why do you let him call you, Annie?" Bobby asked out of nowhere.

For a moment, I was almost stunned. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn't look the older man in the eye. "Bobby, we have been over this," I said, rubbing the back of my neck absently.

"That doesn't answer my question."

Another breath. "Bobby…"

"Annie…" Bobby replied mockingly.

My bones stiffened, my hackles raised in red anger and defensiveness. "Don't call me that."

"Oh, so only Dean can get away with that?"

"Uncle…"

"Annie…"

I whipped around and glared at him. "Don't _call_ me that!"

"Yea? Why the hell not?" Bobby yelled back, orange and red.

"Because that's not my name, okay?! I mean, sure Jamie used to call me that, but that's what Mum and Dad called me and he was too young to know the difference. But ever since—"

"Ever since they kicked the bucket," Bobby tagged without blinking.

I looked over at him, instantly derailed from her tirade. "You know about that_?_"

Bobby shot me a look. "Olivia and I had to set up their funeral, Brianna, and that was years ago. Since you disappeared from the hospital who else was going to do it, huh? Within a year you'd vanished off the map, it's not like we couldn't figure out why you were skipping your holiday visits." He said with a mark of scorn.

Staring at him, I could feel the slowly growing pressure of silence, following the directions of deep blue sorrow and dark grey regret. Yawning and stretching between us, taking forever as a precaution against the tendrils of invading orange pain. Bobby spoke up: "So what makes Dean so special?"

I gave him a look. "What? That I let him call me Annie? Nothing."

"Really," Bobby notes dryly.

I have to remind myself to breathe. My breaths were turning every shade of blue but sympathy. "There's nothing special about Dean, apart from the 'God's great plan' thing. He just—he just _asked_. He tried to call me Bri but—I couldn't—I—I can't—I—No one calls me Bri. And no one's called me Annie since the accident…" My guilt snapped inside me like a fox-tailed whip, and I winced.

"Then, if it means so much to ya, why change your mind?" Bobby asked. Thinking about it, I hid my face with one hand and started chuckling. I felt like I was on the edge of crying my eyes out. My 'Uncle' was completely clueless; "—What?"

My hand over my mouth, I tried to stifle my laughter. I tried to speak up. "The idiot offered to call me Boxer," I told him, wanting nothing more than to pull away and be something besides myself.

"What?" He must not have understood me.

I went back to hiding my face. "Dean offered to call me Boxer."

"What?!" He heard me that time.

"I know, right?!" I exclaimed, unable to hold back any longer. "The moment he said it, I just looked at him. He may as well have tried to call me _Rocky_ for crying out loud!"

"Did he try to go with that?"

"Yes!"

Bobby laughed, completely flabbergasted. "Son of a bitch!"

"I know!"

"What the hell?!"

"I know! I vetoed that thought immediately. Then he asked if he could call me Annie and—by that point, almost any name was better than bleedin' _Boxer_ or whatever."

Bobby managed to chuckle at that. But he sobered quickly. "And you're okay with that? Him callin' you, Annie? It ain't too much?"

"…Yea. I'm okay with it. He asked for a viable nickname, he didn't stick with 'Bri' after I told him off, and anything is better than Boxer so…" It was a struggle to keep my voice in its typical purple-ish hue.

"That ain't all I was asking," Bobby said, his voice in its normal state of orange.

I let out a breath. "No, it's not too much."

"He hasn't made the whole 'Orphan Annie' joke, has he?"

Another breath. "Yea, he has. And the truth of it hurt but, it's not his fault. He doesn't know even half of my story, so he hasn't made the connection, not yet. So, I guess I'm okay."

"You guess?"

"Bobby, no. Scratch that. I'm fine." I insist. "I don't want to dig into this any further. As long as he doesn't know the significance, I'll be fine. I don't want no one's pity." I assured him. "Now stop nagging me… Please."

He stopped. And we both drove on in silence.

* * *

Back at the house, Bobby and I go our separate ways, without a word. I walked upstairs to my room; the guest bedroom my family and I would use when we visited for the holidays. I wandered to my cardboard box in the closet and opened it once again.

Right on top, was a framed photo. My Dad on the left, his arm wrapped around my pregnant mother on the right. Then his hand on the curve of my shoulder as I leaned into his chest. I was just fifteen, Easter of '99. One of the last happy summers my family would ever have. My father had the wackiest, cheekiest, pearly white smile in the universe. His eyes were sparkling and his fiery red-clay hair in a perpetual bedhead.

My mother had the warmest, happiest. Tongue touched smile in the world, her wheaten waves of hair just like mine. That summer, her eyes shined with laughing happiness and excitement. Few more months and there would be a new addition to the family; my baby brother Jamie McKenzie. My eyes stung, and my cheeks burned, here in the real world. _I'm sorry, Muma, Papa-Jamie, I'm so sorry. _I gently put the picture to rest, mourning yet again, all that I have lost.

The lights flickered.

I think I can hear laughter, children's laughter, more than one tinkling voice ringing in the air. I think I can hear a little boy's voice calling my name. I stand.

The lights flicker again.

I think I can hear the radio starting to play downstairs. I think I can hear something bouncing down the stairs. I take a firm grip on my dagger beside me.

All sound stops. The silence is thunderous.

"_Annie,_" a familiar voice calls.

My heart stops—my stomach drops. I whip around and see a fiery chestnut-haired child dressed in some clean button-down shirt and slacks standing, staring, then smiling at me. I dared to look down at the little boy standing there, looking into those whiskey-coloured eyes we shared for the first time in years. "Jamie," I barely managed to squeak. "By golly, how you've grown."

My baby brother grinned my father's wild grin. "Well, I couldn't very well stay an infant all my after-life, now could I?" he asked.

His voice was cheery, but his words were cold. I winced at the sting. "So, I take it you both made it to Heaven, then?" I asked.

My brother's cheeky grin immediately soured, his gaze turning sharp as he suddenly glared at me. "And why would we tell you that, eh?" He asked, his every word a dagger in my chest. "After all," My brother continued. "You're the one that got us both killed it the first place."

I swallowed. A heaviness was sliding down my throat and consuming my gut. My brother's words were the blackness of Death and hatred memories attacking me mercilessly.

**_The fire burned behind my eyes. I could feel it scratching my skin. A heavy metal frame creaked above me. Glass nails dug into every pore. I looked around me, oil and flames and metal and fire and burning flesh, all melding and weaving into an intoxicating smoke that nearly choked me._**

"Jamie, I swear, it wasn't my fault. It was an accident, I swear!" I try and cry.

"Not your _fault?!"_ My brother screeched. "_You_ drove the car! _You_ flipped it over! _You_ were the one that left us to _DIE!"_

**_Blonde hair, dangling from the upside-down passenger seat, mouth half-open, with her head tweaked at an utterly wrong angle. _**

**_ "_**_MUM!**" I cried, scrambling over weak limbs and glass and fumes and asphalt. **_

**_ I tried to reach her, but her seatbelt jammed. I yanked and pulled and screamed. But all to no avail. Her belt was stuck, and I couldn't set her free._**

"Mum was already dead, Jamie!" I cried again, tears blurring my eyes without my permission. "She broke her neck, and I couldn't get her out! I'm sorry!"

"What about me?" Jamie asked, the black of his hatred flaming red with anger and vengeance. "You couldn't save me, either, could you? You were useless!"

"That's not true!"

**_Then, behind my mother, in a little two-year-old car seat, my brother swung loose like a spider monkey. His seatbelt hadn't stuck as well as my mother's. But I could tell from the dent in his chest that it sure had put up a fight during impact. _**

**_ "_**_JAMIE!**" I sobbed, desperately screaming before it was too late.**_

**_ I kept struggling to get my mother out. But nothing could be done. My mother, dead on impact, stuck in an inescapable vice of cloth and leather. My eyes stung, my lungs constantly singed with every breath of flames and smoke. I couldn't save her. But I didn't understand that. _**

"That isn't true, Jamie. I promise you. Mum, she was dead before the fire. I couldn't get the belt out. There was nothing I could do. But I saved you, Jamie. I didn't let you burn, I couldn't!"

"Saved me? I was _Dead_, Annie. It's your own fault you're alone now, Annie! It's Your fault that you're an orphan now. And now, I know for sure. Burning in that car would have been a better fate than the one you gave me!" he shouted angrily.

"No!" I shouted at him angrily. "No, Jamie, you're wrong! _No!_"

**_I couldn't free my mother, but as I felt the heat and heard the flames roar, I rushed to untangle my brother from his harness. Tucking him into my chest, I crawled painstakingly to the back window of my car, my right-hand stinging and screaming and bleeding._**

**_My brother was depending on me. I couldn't die here._**

**_ I dove through the broken window with one last surge of strength. I was screaming as I scraped my right side on the rough, glass-needled tarmac. My baby brother, still in my arms, shuddered with the impact. A spark of hope-maybe he was alive. _**

**_ I lay him out on his back. I was seventeen now, almost eighteen, camp counsellor and lifeguard for over four years. With my training, I could save him. CPR had to be gentle with toddlers, two-year old's and beyond. But my bones were trembling, and my muscles wouldn't move as I wanted them to, my body and heart and head were all in a panic._**

**_ I couldn't stop my jagged movements, 20 pumps to the enclaved chest, plug the nose, kiss the lips, and breathe twice. Then repeat. Even if I was harsh, I couldn't get myself to stop. My brother had to be alive. If anything, he had our mother's stubbornness, and our father's vivacity. _**

**_ I kept trying._**

**_ And trying._**

**_ And trying._**

**_ And trying…_**

**_ Tears flooded my eyes, burning hot waterfalls down my face and neck. I sobbed. He was gone. My mother was gone. My father was gone. I was alone. I couldn't accept it. Desperately, I pounded on him, begging and demanding him to live. He had so much to live for. Pounding out the beats. But the only thing I got was a gurgle. And a trail of blood escaping his lips, peeling down his chin. _**

**_ I screamed._**

Colours and pain rang in my head-then the darkness consumed me.

* * *

I awaken with a gasp of yellow fear. My heart is thundering in my chest. I'm standing on something above the ground, in a ratty, dusty, cobwebby attic of a room. I try to step out onto the dirty floor, but I can't take a stride. I look down—my pale jeans with the bloody knees tied up at the ankles with leather. I reach down to untie them, but I can't bend my torso. My wrists are tied the same way as my ankles. The leather is joined together like handcuffs and hung on a hook above my head. This situation was not good. Where's my dagger?

"_Annie…_" a familiar voice calls.

I look up. I shouldn't have because Jamie is still there. My vengeful spirit of a brother was standing only a few feet in front of me, on solid ground, my Gerber knife dangling point-first from his two fingers.

"Looking for something?" My brother asks his voice, sickly sweet.

"What the hell have you done? If you hate me so much for your Death, why haven't you killed me already?" I asked, hating how badly my voice was breaking with vivid red pain.

My brother's sickly-sweet smile drops like he'd tasted something bitter. "But you didn't attack us with a knife when we died, did you?" he asked, his words turning black. "How wrong would it be of me to do to you what you never did to me?"

Despair and grief swallowed me, suddenly and all at once. _Us…_drowning me in a sea of dark blue as I replied. "It would be an act of mercy," I told him, I saw no reason to lie. "But since you refuse to kill me quickly, I have to warn you. I will fight this. You've had your chance. I won't make this easy for you."

"I don't want it to be easy for you," Jamie said. "You killed me, then abandoned my corpse on the side of some highway in Nebraska. Would it be justice if I killed you and disposed of you properly? Or would it be justice if I left you here in this black box to suffocate and die…just as you did to Mum and me?"

I swallowed. "Do it," I told Jamie. "I'd like to see you _try_. I can fight with my wrists and ankles tied, you watch. While you're waiting for me to die, don't hurt _anyone else_ that comes through this house. You're welcome to watch me fight, for I will fight until my very last breath, but don't kill anyone else." I ordered. "They have their demons to face."

That sickly-sweet smile returned to my brother's face. "Just like you."

I shuddered. But my resolve did not. "I want your word, Jamie. Anyone else comes through those doors. You _leave_ _them_ _alone_. Promise me."

Jamie's grin only grew. "Oh, you're no fun, Annie." He teased, but at the sight of my penetrating glare, his amusement relented slightly. "Alright, I promise." He said.

I nodded. "Alright, then. Lock me up."

As quickly as it fell a moment ago, another grin creased my little brother's cheeks. "With pleasure."

With that, he reached for one door of the box, then for the other and shut me up, away from the world. Leaving me tied up with leather, and only a boxful of air to breathe. I heard the sharp whining sound of a metal pipe being slid across the doors, barring my exit. But I wouldn't let that news pass by quietly. The moment silence came back to greet me, I kicked and fought and screamed in its face. I was making sure to show Death the temper tantrum of his life.

* * *

"HEEELLPPP!" I screamed, my voice scratching until it finally broke and I ran out of sound.

No sound. No answers or replies yet. God knows where Bobby must be right now if he can't hear me screaming and crying and kicking up a storm. And apparently, Dean and Sam haven't returned yet either. It's been hours. Feels as if the entire night has gone. It helped when I found a way to stand on my tiptoes and unhook the leather cuffs around my wrists. But even then, this box wasn't full enough for me to fully relax my arms, and I'd been using them all night to bang on the doors and scream. Honestly, I'm surprised that my voice, my precious energy, has managed to last this long.

But now, I am tired. My throat is raw. My wrists ache, and the sides of my hands riddled with bruising splinters. I'm not done fighting yet. I'm not. I'm just…I'm just tired. I think I'll rest, just for a little bit. I'm not done fighting. I'm just…tired. I'm…I'm exhausted.

**_I ripped my side open, I got a concussion, and the woman kneeling over still hasn't moved. Golden blonde curls spilling all over my blood-stained clothes, her dull olive skin cast in shadows because of it. Thick black brows with matching eyes, I recognize the sharp angle of her face, the length of her pencil nose, and the light her in gaze when she looks at me. She cups my right hand in both of hers and bows her head like she's praying…it's hard to believe that the person I'm seeing might be Olivia Lowry._**

_"It's alright, Brianna. Come on. You're alive. Now you've gotta stay that way, alright?" **Olivia said.** "There's so much more you could do in this world, you've got to stay alive." _

_**Owlish and confused, nearly all I could do was blink.** "Olivia? Wha-What are you doing here? You're …dead."_

_**The hunter I knew, usually so gruff and strong like Bobby, let out an uncharacteristic sigh—reluctant and resigned.** "I'm sorry, Brianna, I was hoping that you would respond to this form so that I wouldn't have to expose myself."_

_"What?"** I asked, utterly confounded by this strange-figure, wearing Olivia's skin.** "What the heck is going on? Who are you?!" **Ugh, I should not have shouted. All that did was win me and painful, a stinging twinge in my side. **_

**_Olivia's image suddenly shimmered, transforming like a mirage in the desert, a cloud in a windstorm. In the blink of my eye, the leather-hide hunter I knew, was replaced by the sunlit gaze of a woman I knew better than I knew my soul. Her flawless, elliptical-shaped face was the perfect canvas for her curved brows, long nose and full, narrow lips. Her night-black hair would never find a better light to match than that which filled her loving whiskey-coloured gaze. She was the graceful beauty I always wanted to be. She was my mother. _**

_ "Muma…" j**ust the sight of the face I missed so much, stole my breath from me. But that was okay if anyone could still love me even as I lay broken and dying on a lifeless warehouse floor, it was her.** "You're back!" **The truth burst forth before I could stop myself.** "It's you, you found me!"** It felt so good to speak my truth again, like honey-ed green tea and bright sunshine. My words were for both of us. But my smile was only for her, broken and breathless as it was.**_

_**She nodded, my mother, nodded to me, for the first time in too many years.** "That's right, my darling. I am here, but I can't stay long." S**he said, kind but firm, as she always was.** "I came here to warn you, Brianna. These ghosts haunting you and your friends are only the tip of the iceberg. Everything that's approaching on the horizon, it's all part of a greater scheme with consequences beyond the human imagination. The world is about to change forever…and soon you must decide what part you want to play in it."_

_**A sort of uneasiness was plucking the hairs at the back of my neck, tingling through the rest of my body. Only one thought rang through my spinning head; **_**Muma never used my full name**_**.** **She was truly serious, something that was dangerously rare when she was alive…and that was what scared me more than anything.** "What do you mean? What's coming?"_

_**She looked down at me, unshed tears in her deep brown eyes.** "The end of the world," **She whispered. My heart pounded with apocalyptic images swimming behind my eyes. The end of the world?! What the heck was that supposed to mean? I heard my mother sniff and rub at her eyes, the sound of her distress yanking me back to my current situation.**_

_**When the tears finally fall, streaking down her cheeks one at a time, she speaks:** "I'm sorry, love, but we don't have much time. I need you to listen to me very carefully now," **she said, her voice nothing more than a murmur of noise beyond the terrifying heartbeat in my ears.** "You have the chance to change your fate, moments like this are few and far between across the history of time. But for you, this may be the one that matters most: you can either go home tonight, live safely, and separate in the world of mortals until the end—or, you can stay, intertwine yourself with your potential in a world of constant peril, knowing that your world will end in two years." _

**_I opened my mouth to answer, but I wasn't exactly sure what to say. Was this real? Was my dead mother giving me an ultimatum that would define the rest of my life? Or was this just a dream where my subconscious was playing all sorts of mean tricks on me? …Maybe somewhere in between? I–I'm not sure such a thing is possible. _**

_"You have to decide before the witnesses are put to rest!" **My mother insisted urgently under her breath.** "Think about it, Brianna." **My mother pleaded with a desperate edge.** "So little time left for humanity, with your mortal life just think of all the good things you could do—if you returned to your life of safety." **She said.** "You were your people's keeper, you turned your shop into a home for the homeless, a beacon for the lost! Brianna, listen, with that beautiful heart of yours…you could make the best of this world before it has to end."_

_F**or a moment, everything I felt in my chest could only be despair.** "Does it really have to end?" **I asked with true horror colouring my very breath.** "Are those truly my only two options?" **It was the moment I opened my mouth to pray that things started to go wrong. Something twisted in the centre of my chest, and I knew I couldn't do it.** "I can't decide. I can't." **I squeezed through a clenching breath.** "How am I supposed to make any choice worthwhile if the world's gonna end!" **I shouted hopelessly, hissing in pain as something seem to clamp around my heart and my lungs, just beneath my ribs. **_

_**My mother watched on, heartbreak shining in her eyes.** "If there was something I could do about that…I guess we're both just going to have to be brave. Rise, my love. And be brave."_

_"A.H.!" **Suddenly it was as if an invisible knife had struck into my core, sending burning poison flying through the marrow in my bones, intent of wrenching my agony from me.** "What the hell was that?!" **I cried beneath huffs of stifled pain. Panic seized me when my mother didn't answer. Was she gone? Had she vanished into smoke just as she always did before the end of a dream? Was I to be left here twisting in anguish until I woke up screaming for her? What the hell was going on?!** "Mum? Mum! Mum, please! please! MUMA!"_


	4. His Guilt

His Guilt

Pick up the phone.

Come on, Bobby, pick up the phone.

Pick up your _phone_ damn it!

Voice mail.

What the _HELL?!_

"Goddammit,_ Bobby!_" Dean shouted for his message. "Pick up your damn phone!" He slams his phone shut and chucks it in the back seat. Then looks at Sam. "How you feelin', huh?" He asked, his hands never leaving the steering wheel. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Sam wasn't fooled. "None. I'll be fine, Dean."

"Henriksen?" Dean asked, confirming the spirit he thought he saw attacking his brother.

"Yep."

"Why? What did he want?" Dean asked.

"Revenge, 'cause we got him killed."

"Sam." He warned.

"Well, we _did_, Dean."

All of a sudden, Dean was just fed up. "All right, you know what? Just stop right there." He snapped. "Whatever the Hell is going on, it's happening to us now, okay? Now I can't get ahold of Bobby, so if you're not thinking of answers on how to fix this, don't think at all!"

"Maybe the spirits are after Bobby, now." Sam thought aloud. "Brianna too."

"Brianna? Why would there be anyone wanting revenge on her?"

"I don't know, maybe because she's been hanging around us, and the sprits are ganging up on hunters and whatever. I don't know. I was thinking." Dean chewed on that thought for a moment, but Sam was the one who put his thoughts into words. "Do you think she's had anyone in her life that she couldn't save?" He asked.

"I don't know," Dean replied. "Hasn't said much in the six, seven days since I've known her. What about you?" He asked, looking over at his brother.

"Well, we talked," Sam said lamely. "But it was mostly to check on you while you were…you know. But we never really tried to learn too much about each other. She knows about how you and I got into hunting, and I know she has a friend in her family that's a hunter, but that's about it. "

"I know she told me the same story," Dean remembered. "I just never realized her 'family friend' was Bobby until I popped out of the ground and she took me over to see him, looking for you."

Sam suddenly looked at Dean. "Wait, Bobby? Like, _Bobby _Bobby? Bobby _Singer? _Is that why Brianna's been calling him 'Uncle' all the time?"

"Well, how many _other_ Bobby's do you know?!" Dean snapped, shuddering unpleasantly with the verbatim of Deja-vu. "Yes, I assume that's the reason she's calling Bob her Uncle, blah blah blah. Got it?"

Sam still looked a little stunned, but he said; "Yea… I guess I got it."

"Good for you, Gossip Girl."

* * *

Guns cocked and ready; Dean enters the house before Sam, scanning front left to right with a sharp eye. Only to find the house utterly empty. The first thing that catches Dean's attention is the iron poker on the floor.

"Bobby?" He calls out into the quiet.

No answer.

Dean gestures to the stairs. "I'll go up. You check outside."

Sam nods, then evacuates, heading for the junkyard.

Dean watches him go, does one more scan of the day-lit room, then makes his way up the stairs. Crawling step by step, keeping his eyes and ears on high alert as he reaches the next level of the house—a red wallpapered hallway, with black doors and black door frames. Where the lamps run on electricity now, but look like they ran on gas back in the day.

"Bobby? Annie?" Dean calls out to the quiet.

A sudden, rapid-fire pounding, catches Deans attention-a rapid pounding and a muffled voice screaming. He whips around. The door down on end opens slowly, but nothing is visible but a ratty old attic and what might be a black wardrobe. No one was there.

"Come out, come out, whoever you are."

* * *

The sensation of waking from a dream is like listening to a banshee scream loud enough to scare the Sun. When I open my eyes, everything comes back to me: I'm still stuck in a box, restrained at the wrists and ankles. First time I've ever fallen asleep standing up. Everything else was just a stupid dream, I hope. I mean, I did dream a similar scene on the night I saw Olivia Lowry die. Dreaming the same thing two nights in a row…that's never been a coincidence. Not since the day my mother died and went to Heaven. Oh, gosh-I can't believe I'm thinking this but-maybe it was my mother, coming to me in both dreams. Maybe I was the daughter in the soap opera bleeding out on a warehouse floor. I know it was me dying in that second dream just now, but…if that was indeed my mother's spirit…then does that mean the ultimatum was real too?

I mean, now that I've started getting genuinely involved in the world of hunters and demons and angels and whatnot. The visiting ghost of a loved one doesn't seem all that impossible. Even if she did first appear to me as Olivia and then shape-shifted into her 'true self'. That could mean she's a monster, maybe she's one of the malicious ghosts of lore and she's just trying to find the best way to weasel into my head. I don't know…but for some reason that thought doesn't sit too well with me; I could be wrong, after all. I mean, maybe, instead of being vengeful and evil like the ghosts I struggled to read about in Bobby's books, my mother was trying to warn me. Perhaps it's true, maybe the choices I make today among the Winchesters could end up dictating the rest of my life, or I suppose, what little experience I have left. But…how is that possible? How could she know that to be possible, the end of the world? How the heck could she know about that, and how did she find a way to warn me? She's been dead for as long as Jamie has.

Yet another thought occurs to me. Regardless of whether my mother was a monster or a ghost in my dreams if the ultimatum is real. What would—what will I—what am I going to do about it? How could a choice I make now when I'm…twenty-six, determine whether or not I live a short, dangerous life versus a short, domestic life? Argh! Too many questions and not an answer in sight for any of them. Besides, no matter what path I choose to take, what kind of difference would that make? She said that I had a choice as to whether I could return to the life I had and remain 'ignorant' despite the looming threat of Doomsday, _or_ I could stay with the hunters I knew and keep on fighting until the end came to pass. What difference could I possibly make in the fate of the world if those were my only two options?

Well, on the one hand, how can I stay? I mean, in all honesty, I didn't intend to keep up _this long_ in the hunting world_._ Finding Sam on the side of the road four months ago, helping him bury Dean, keeping up the grave and waiting for his resurrection …honestly, I didn't see my involvement going anywhere further than that. Before I knew it, I was helping Dean get to Bobby's house, a man who he regarded as a father figure. Suddenly, I found myself wanting to be a part of the action. I wanted to see Dean's reunion with his baby brother. I tried to find out who (if not Sam) had brought Dean back from the dead, and somehow, through it all-I think we became friends. I mean, I'd also like to think that Sam and I became friends through our phone calls at my old shop. But after realizing how good Sam is at keeping secrets…who's to say what's real and what's not?

And the number of answers; absolutely zero. That has to be the worst part because right now, some questions need answering. If my theory is correct, and my dead mother honestly is warning of two most likely fates that lie ahead of me, which one would I choose? If my theory is correct, then I…, I only have two options here, and only a certain amount of time to decide. My mother said something about 'Witnesses', she said that I had to make up my mind before they were put to rest like they were malicious spirits of some kind. So, either they will be put to rest, and I have until then to choose a side or, they can never be put to rest, keep haunting and killing hunters, and I'll have all the time in the world.

Nope. No way. If there are more ghosts, more 'Witnesses' than just Jamie out there, and if those Witnesses are the ones who killed Olivia in my dreams—Hunters dying is not worth having more time to decide my fate. These ghosts need to get put down before anyone else gets hurt, and apparently, I have to make one of the most important decisions of my life before it's all over. How the Hell am I supposed to decide that? Are those my only two options? What would I choose if it were? –I don't know-

The floor creaked somewhere far away from me, jarring me into awareness.

With the ghost of my dead brother wandering around in my waking hours, the hours of my shape-shifting dead mother's visit during the night quickly vanish to the back of my mind.

Another creaking wooden floorboard.

Sounds like the noise is being channeled from the stairs. Someone…or some_thing_, is crawling its way up here. I hear the footsteps creep across the wooden floor of the hall beyond me; a red, gruff and gritty voice calls out to the quiet.

**"Bobby? Annie?"**

Immediately recognizing that familiar voice, a squealing scream tears itself from my throat as I start pounding on the door of my jail box as hard, loud and fast as I can. My voice was hoarse and just as gritty as his.

"DEAN! DEAN I'M IN HERE! DEAN!"

I hear the door to my attic storage room groan open, but Dean's voice is still distant as he answers. **"Come out come out whoever you are…"** I opened my mouth to shout at him. But another voice beats me to it.

**_"_**_Dean Winchester. Still so bossy-You don't recognize me?**"**_

I don't know this voice. It's not my mother's and not the demon Ruby's. But who or whatever it belongs to, the sound is feminine.

**_"_**_This is what I looked like before that demon cut off my hair and dressed me like a slut**."**_

The voice continued. This voice must be a spirit. She couldn't have possibly been possessed by a demon and then lived to tell about it. –Maybe she was one of Ruby's past vessels. Perhaps she was someone else's. Whoever it was that had possessed her, this woman's words let me know that this person, err, a demon had possessed spirit haunting Dean before she died. And since Dean was involved, this girl probably fell victim while Sam and Dean were hunting. Someone they couldn't save in time. If it wasn't Ruby, I hope they got the demon who killed her.

**"Meg?"** Dean asked.

**_"_**_Hi.**"**_ 'Meg' replied. **_"_**_It's okay, I'm not a demon.**"**_

**"You're the girl the demon-possessed."** Dean realized.

**_"_**_Meg Masters.**"** _The spirit greeted, introducing herself. **_"_**_Nice to finally talk to you when I'm not, you know, choking on my blood.**"**_ I cringed. I could picture the scene now, and my heart went out to the spirit who used to be Meg. To die as someone other than yourself, with whatever sins the possessing entity did still sitting on one's conscience-sounds awful.

**_"_**_It's okay. Seriously. I'm just a college girl-Sorry—was. I was walking home one night and got jumped by all this smoke. Next thing you know, I'm a prisoner-in here. Now, I was awake. I had to watch while she murdered people.**"** _So, the demon was a she. Now I was beginning to think that Ruby _was_ the demon who possessed and killed Meg. I felt sorry for the innocent girl who had been possessed by such a manipulative creature.

**"I'm sorry,"** Dean whispered, his voice deep as a chasm of regret. The part of my heart that sat in his chest was broken just then, to hear the terrible emotion in his voice.

**_"_**_Oh yeah? So sorry you had me thrown off a building?**"**_ I gasped. _No._

_"Well, we thought—."_ Dean tried to defend himself. It was a pathetic attempt.

_ **"No**, you didn't **think!**_ _I kept waiting, praying! I was **trapped** in there, **screaming** at you! '**Just help me, please!'** You're supposed to **help** people, Dean. Why didn't you **help** me?**"**_

**"I'm sorry,"** Dean whispered.

_ **"**Stop saying you're **sorry**.**"**_

A harsh, white-hot _SLAP_ echoed through the hall, dark and cold, ringing through every door on the floor. A crippled grey thud followed soon after like a dense weight was suddenly shoved to the ground. I screamed.

"DEAN!" My hands and arm-bones shuddering every time I pounded on the door as hard and loud as I could. I heard him mutter something, almost begging, and a groan as he was kicked with a _thwap_ of cloth against flesh. "DEAN!" I screamed. "GET UP! GET UP!"

**"We didn't know…"** he groaned, almost as if he couldn't hear me.

**_"_**_No…**"**_ Meg hissed menacingly. **_"_**_You just attacked. Did you ever think there was a girl in here? No. You just charged in, slashing and burning. You think you're some hero?**"**_

**"No, I don't."**

My heart broke again with Dean's reply. Now with this sprit's sudden strike of anger, I understood. Any pity and sympathy I'd first felt for this 'Meg' character, was suddenly much hard to connect with the malicious, soul that was currently smacking Dean around like a ragdoll. "DEAN!" I shouted through my wooden prison. "DON'T LISTEN TO HER! GET _UP! _COME _ON!_ _FIGHT_ FOR YOURSELF!"

They can't hear me, or maybe they're both just ignoring me; even though my sole mission is to catch Dean's attention. There's no way I can let him beat himself up, nor get beat up by this.

**_"_**_You're damn right.**"**_ I hear Meg snarl. **_"_**_Do you have any idea what it's like to be ridden for months by **pure** evil…while your own family has no idea what happened to you?**"**_

That struck a chord in me. And I could tell it hit Dean too. **"We did the best we could."** He tried to defend. I heard another dull thud on the floor and another harsh white kick.

"DEAN!" I screamed, cursing Meg Master's ghost. "LEAVE HIM ALONE YOU SADISTIC BITCH!" But this girl decided to ignore me. My voice was dying, anyway.

**_"_**_It wasn't just me, Dean,"_ Meg said. _"I had a sister. A little sister."_ My body froze. _"She worshipped me. You know how little siblings are, right? She just…she just got lost._" Lost-I guess that happens to everyone who loses a loved one. Sam burned the tarmac for four months, crisscrossing the country looking for a way to bring his brother back. He told me the story of how Dean sold his soul to bring back his baby brother from the dead. And me? My baby brother was now out to kill me because I'm the one who took his life first. He has no idea what happened to me in the years after he died-_Lost_.

**_"_**_And when my body was lying in the morgue; beat up and broken…Do you know what that did to her? She killed herself!**"** _Another hard white kick, like a sucker punch to the gut. _"Because of you, **DEAN!** Because all you were thinking about was **your** family,** your **revenge, and **your** demons! Fifty words of Latin a little sooner and I'd still be alive. My baby sister would still be alive. That blood is on **your** hands, Dean!**"**_

I could barely hear the sound of Dean's voice over Meg's rant. I couldn't even listen to what he said. I wished I could help him. I wanted I could protect him from her. "DON'T LISTEN TO HER DEAN! GET UP! WAKE UP!" I pleaded desperately, screaming and pounding and breaking my lungs just trying to reach him. But this ghost, Meg's spirit, has lost so much even after her death. She was once a real person, too. How could I keep forgetting? Wait, no, no matter what this ghost has lost, no one has the right to be so cruel to anybody else. Taking other people's crimes and guilt and scrubbing white salt all over that bleeding red wound. I wish I hadn't taken a breath just then. Otherwise, I wouldn't have had to hear the one thing that broke every bone in my chest.

**"You're right."**

I screamed as Meg kicked Dean harder than ever before and sent him sliding into the room where my prison cell of a box was hiding. I pounded and pounded and pounded, desperate to reach him, the instinct to protect him and my rage at hearing one of my friends being hurt was making me more urgent than my need to escape.

Someone cocks a gun.

_"Come on, Dean, did your brain get French fried in Hell? You can't shoot me with bullets."_

**"I'm not shooting you."**

A sharp white bang like the flash of a camera. The bright chink of something metal snapping and then a _CRASH_ as something metal clatters to the floor. _Iron. The silence_ stretches out again. Then I realize that he can hear me from how close he is. I start pounding still, my hands and arms and fingers trembling and sore and I shout for my life.

"DEAN! DEAN, I'M IN HERE! GET ME OUT! _DEAN!_"

Someone stumbles to their feet and then 'shrinks_'_ the metal pipe out from the door handle holding my box prison shut. The moment I see the light of the doors opening, I lunge forward from my box, immediately hooping my arms over Dean's head and wrapping them tight around his neck.

"Oh, thank _GOD!"_ I gasped into his shoulder, pulling him closer to the box with sore arms and shoulders.

Dean looked down at me and my sudden embrace with bright blue surprise. "…Howdy, Annie."

I looked up at him, my grin of relief burning gold as I spoke. "Howdy there, Dean."

"That was you? All that-random, noise?"

"Yup." I said, popping the 'P'.

"Hm. How long were you locked up?"

"About a day," I said as if it wasn't that big a deal.

"…Meg?" Dean asked.

"No. I've never seen her face. Only you."

"Then how'd ya get stuffed?"

"Someone I couldn't save. Just like you."

"Who?" He asked.

I looked down at my strapped-up feet, unable to look him in the eyes. "My…my little brother, died in a car crash with me when I was eighteen."

For a moment, Dean was stunned, "Oh," he murmured, not sure what else to say before he had to stare down at his own feet. "So…you heard all of that, 'bout Meg?"

"Yea. Yea, I did." I said, looking up at him. "I'm sorry, Dean. I know you probably already felt guilty for her death. But that girl, Meg, she didn't even seem like a human soul anymore, the way she treated you. She seemed…twisted. No one should have their mistakes rubbed in their face like that."

"I guess you're speaking from experience?" He asks.

I nod solemnly in return. "More than you'll ever know," I told him, remembering everything my brother confessed to me over the past day. All of those things may have been true about me…but were not right about Dean. I had to tell him so. "Dean, she was wrong. You may not be a hero, but you are still a good man. And her blood, the blood of her sister, it is _not_ on your hands. Right here, and right now, that blood is _drowning_ the demon that kidnapped her body and ruined her life. Meg was wrong about you, Dean. She was wrong. Okay?"

Dean managed a rather slight smile, then nodded. "Okay."

"Alright," I said, looking back up at Dean, stepping back and lifting out of his embrace, taking his hands instead, even with my leather handcuffs. "Let's get me out of here. Then we can find Sam and Bobby, yea?"

The older hunter nodded. "Deal."

* * *

Eventually, everyone was gathered together in Bobby's study; both Sam and Bobby were alive and unharmed. Dean and I were bruised and sore, but both alive, un-cuffed and breathing. Sam was pacing, Dean was in a chair, Bobby was sitting at his desk, and I was leaning on one corner, forever grateful to be able to bend my knees after being locked up straight for so long.

"So, they're all people we know?" Sam asked.

"Not just know," I told him. "People we know and couldn't save."

"Meg, Henriksen, the whole posse," Dean added. "Hey, I saw something on Meg. Did she have a tattoo when she was alive?"

"I don't think so," Sam replied.

"It was a like a-a mark on her hand—almost like a brand."

"I saw a mark, too, on Henricksen," Sam noted.

Mark? I didn't see any sort of mark on Jamie, or my mother. "What did it look like?" I ask curiously.

Dean glanced up at me, browed furrowed. But Sam didn't notice, purely focused on the mission. "Uh, paper?" the younger Winchester asks, for lack of a better word.

I take a pad of paper and pen from Bobby's desk and pass them to Sam. He takes it with a quiet "Thanks." Within moments, Sam his holding his sketch up to Dean, comparing what he saw on 'Henricksen' to what Dean saw on Meg.

"That's it," Dean confirmed.

Sam then passes the paper to Bobby, who peers at it a moment. "I may have seen this before." He says, his voice heavy with foreboding. The candle-like fixtures above the fireplace flickered, everyone looked up. "We got to move." Abruptly, Bobby stands from his desk, comes around, and starts walking.

"Whoa, okay, where are we going?" Sam asks.

"Someplace safe, ya idgit, follow me," Bobby says, picking up a pile of books and leads the three of us to a basement room. The room looked to be entirely made of iron and covered with pentagrams and Devil's traps.

I gasped and gaped simultaneously. "Uncle, is this what I think it is?"

"Solid iron," Bobby replied. "Completely coated in salt. One hundred per cent ghost-proof."

"You built a panic room?" Sam asked.

"I had a weekend off." Bobby defended, shrugging with wide eyes when he caught me a knowing look.

"Bobby," Dean said, distracting him.

"What?" the hunter said, absently still.

"You're awesome."


End file.
